As I write this, there’s only 49 sleeps, 14 hours, 14 minutes & 49 seconds until December 25th (according to Santa’s Official Christmas Countdown Clock) so time has come once again for the little ones to write their list of what they’d like.
I’m hoping mighty hard that there’s nothing on there that includes extra batteries, or any assembly whatsoever.
My Beloved and I are only just recovering from last year’s efforts.
Since I just happened to be in a particular discount department store when they put out a huge special on trampolines (which featured prominently on the 2008 Christmas list), guess what the kids ended up with? And since I knew for a fact that a friend wanted one for her tribe, I simply had to do my civic duty and call to let her know about the bargain too.
I should’ve kept my mouth shut.
Anyone who’s ever tried to steer a shopping trolley knows how incredibly exasperating it can be. I swear the things have a mind of their own, and no sense of direction whatsoever.
It’s also sadly obvious that they’re not designed to take the big ticket items, because I had a reindeer’s chance in hunting season of fitting our trampoline in the wire basket provided - let alone two of them!
I can only say how happy I was that the display of said items was fairly close to the Lay-by department, at least I didn't have far to go.
So there I was- trying to lift one of the boxes onto the trolley one-handed, and guard the other one- in amidst the fiercest crowd of bargain hunters I have ever encountered. I practically growled at any shopper that came sniffing around my haul, just waiting for me to abandon my bouncy booty.
Seemed I was making a spectacle of myself (so what’s new? I hear my Beloved ask) and soon there was a friendly staffer hovering to offer assistance.
Unfortunately, the size of the staffer in question was even smaller than my pathetic 5 foot 4½ inches, and she was as hopeless as I was in attempting to balance a box across the top of the trolley (of course the dimensions were too big for it to fit inside). After fruitless efforts to make the mate fit as well, I then had the cunning plan of nudging the other one along on the floor (using my good leg) inch-by-painstaking-inch towards the Lay-by counter, also trying to steer the rogue shopping cart as I went.
It would be a joy to say the story ends happily here. But then, I wouldn’t be blogging about it if life was that easy.
Oh no, after dutifully making all the payments, then came the fun of picking the thing up from the shop and bringing it home before the fat man in red rode again.
Well, not being one to learn from my mistakes apparently, I overlooked the obvious and neglected to take my Beloved along to help me collect it, didn’t I?
Arriving at the store I was informed that due to its large size I had to drive around to the loading dock to pick it up. Oh well, at least there’d be a storeman to load it in the back of the ute, I thought.
I thought too soon.
After pressing the buzzer to hail some assistance, how bemused was I to see what looked like a 12 year-old working the back dock (minimum pay doncha know), and not one who had enjoyed a lot of fatty foods, judging by the size of him. He took one look at the ticket and tells me I’ll have to help. Oh goody.
Afraid of breaking either the precious parcel or the storeboy (seriously, he didn’t deserve the title of storeman) I had to shoulder most of the load and then try to manoeuvre it into my Beloved’s Brumby (AKA a Subaru BRAT, and I can assure you it was a toss-up who fit the description best: the car or storeboy, given his continued commentary about how heavy it was).
It took quite some time before I was able to 1) shut the tailgate with the trampoline box safe inside, and 2) actually move my achy body enough to drive the car home.
Once I got here though, I did my best impression of an Olympic relay runner and passed the metaphorical baton to my Beloved for the assembly process in record time.
Needless to say that as soon as I saw him surrounded by countless plastic packages and paraphernalia (including instructions written in hieroglyphics, apparently) I figured that perhaps I’d had the easy end of things after all. He finally had the trampoline taking pride of place in our backyard, only to inform me he wasn’t sure what to do with all these bits left over.
But as I sit, with 49 sleeps, 13 hours, 51 minutes & 26 seconds until it’s Santa’s showtime once again, I’m happy to report that there have been no major injuries from last year’s gift (we never did figure out where the other bits went)…
…and I’m praying that this year, perhaps the kids will be asking for books!
Jx
©2009
Showing posts with label shopping. Show all posts
Showing posts with label shopping. Show all posts
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Why Shopping is for The Birds
Remind me never to go shopping on Pension Day.
I thought I was being clever, didn't I, dropping the kids at school then heading to the local Aldi supermarket nice and early to get the shopping done.
Bad move.
Oh it was all well and good when I drove into the underground carpark just before 9am, easily found a park, and proceeded to the lift with my carry bags (good little green shopper that I am).
As soon as the elevator doors opened I felt as if I’d stepped into an Alfred Hitchcock film.
About 400 eyes silently swung my direction, as I came face to face with the combined elderly of three surrounding suburbs, all waiting for the day’s trading to begin.
Realising there was another good 10 minutes or more before the doors would open and the crowd could fight their way inside to all the weekly specials, I backed away quietly, keeping my eyes on the mob of shoppers before me all the while, and reached around behind to hit the ‘down’ arrow on the lift.
Whispering “I’ll come back later” to no one in particular, I stepped inside and pushed the button for the basement floor as hard as I could (why do we do that, by the way, it doesn’t make the doors close any faster, now does it).
Safely ensconced in my car once again, and talking about it with my friend on the ‘phone, we agreed it was like that scene in “The Birds” when the actors walk carefully through the eerie quiet of the assembled flock, afraid to make the one wrong move that would startle them into a feathered frenzy.
And as I drove out of the carpark, avoiding the assortment of vehicles trying to make their way in, I breathed a sigh of relief at my close call.
I realised my error, of course, during the course of the conversation with my friend (who found my predicament highly hilarious, because it hadn’t happened to her on this occasion) that today was the day that the Centrelink benefits had gone into bank accounts. Furthermore, it was the start of a brand new catalogue at the shops, so every man and his dog was out to bag a bargain.
Since we don’t seem to get a lot of those catalogues (which is a real mystery to me, since every other home around ours gets theirs every week- I suspect my Beloved has something to do with their disappearance) I have no idea what was so special about this week’s Specials; and as I don’t qualify for any regular payment from the government, for me no day is better than any other to get the groceries.
Now, because we really do need milk and other items, I filled in some time by topping up the fuel tank, took a walk through a local caryard (still on my quest to find a better vehicle than the one I’m driving now) and went back around the block to try my luck again at Aldi. Instead of being any better, it was now pure chaos, as little old men in the world’s smallest hatchbacks were stopped right in the middle of the road without warning, waiting for a chance to pull into a park and get their daily bread and other bargains.
It was no better at the next supermarket I went to, or the one after that, as it appears that old-age pensioners were making the most of the winter sunshine and their fortnightly payment, and were out in force everywhere I went.
So home I came, sans essential items, and had a much-needed cup of coffee (black, mind you).
And now I will watch the clock and wait until it’s almost time to do the afternoon school run before I venture out again. Because I have found from past experiences, if there’s one thing almost guaranteed to clear the roads and the shops of grandparents, it’s kids! And quite frankly, they scare me a whole lot less.
Oh by the way, for those who are worried I’m being disrespectful to our elders, rest assured that I ran this blog by my mum first (an expert in that particular field). Amid her laughter, she gave me her standard response to things like this: “You’ll be like it yourself one day.” And that, perhaps, is the scariest thing of all!
;-)
Jx
©2009
I thought I was being clever, didn't I, dropping the kids at school then heading to the local Aldi supermarket nice and early to get the shopping done.
Bad move.
Oh it was all well and good when I drove into the underground carpark just before 9am, easily found a park, and proceeded to the lift with my carry bags (good little green shopper that I am).
As soon as the elevator doors opened I felt as if I’d stepped into an Alfred Hitchcock film.
About 400 eyes silently swung my direction, as I came face to face with the combined elderly of three surrounding suburbs, all waiting for the day’s trading to begin.
Realising there was another good 10 minutes or more before the doors would open and the crowd could fight their way inside to all the weekly specials, I backed away quietly, keeping my eyes on the mob of shoppers before me all the while, and reached around behind to hit the ‘down’ arrow on the lift.
Whispering “I’ll come back later” to no one in particular, I stepped inside and pushed the button for the basement floor as hard as I could (why do we do that, by the way, it doesn’t make the doors close any faster, now does it).
Safely ensconced in my car once again, and talking about it with my friend on the ‘phone, we agreed it was like that scene in “The Birds” when the actors walk carefully through the eerie quiet of the assembled flock, afraid to make the one wrong move that would startle them into a feathered frenzy.
And as I drove out of the carpark, avoiding the assortment of vehicles trying to make their way in, I breathed a sigh of relief at my close call.
I realised my error, of course, during the course of the conversation with my friend (who found my predicament highly hilarious, because it hadn’t happened to her on this occasion) that today was the day that the Centrelink benefits had gone into bank accounts. Furthermore, it was the start of a brand new catalogue at the shops, so every man and his dog was out to bag a bargain.
Since we don’t seem to get a lot of those catalogues (which is a real mystery to me, since every other home around ours gets theirs every week- I suspect my Beloved has something to do with their disappearance) I have no idea what was so special about this week’s Specials; and as I don’t qualify for any regular payment from the government, for me no day is better than any other to get the groceries.
Now, because we really do need milk and other items, I filled in some time by topping up the fuel tank, took a walk through a local caryard (still on my quest to find a better vehicle than the one I’m driving now) and went back around the block to try my luck again at Aldi. Instead of being any better, it was now pure chaos, as little old men in the world’s smallest hatchbacks were stopped right in the middle of the road without warning, waiting for a chance to pull into a park and get their daily bread and other bargains.
It was no better at the next supermarket I went to, or the one after that, as it appears that old-age pensioners were making the most of the winter sunshine and their fortnightly payment, and were out in force everywhere I went.
So home I came, sans essential items, and had a much-needed cup of coffee (black, mind you).
And now I will watch the clock and wait until it’s almost time to do the afternoon school run before I venture out again. Because I have found from past experiences, if there’s one thing almost guaranteed to clear the roads and the shops of grandparents, it’s kids! And quite frankly, they scare me a whole lot less.
Oh by the way, for those who are worried I’m being disrespectful to our elders, rest assured that I ran this blog by my mum first (an expert in that particular field). Amid her laughter, she gave me her standard response to things like this: “You’ll be like it yourself one day.” And that, perhaps, is the scariest thing of all!
;-)
Jx
©2009
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Secret Women's Business
There’s this new ad on TV that says “You shouldn’t be taxed for being a woman.”
I’m inclined to believe it’s exactly the reason certain things are included in the GST...it’s inescapable, and for the most part, not negotiable.
For, what’s that old saying: ‘Only two things in life are certain; Death, and Taxes.’
So it stands to reason that if it’s gonna be needed, someone’s going to put a price on it. In this case, we’re talking about ‘feminine hygiene products’ (and isn’t it funny that there’s still such obvious discomfort about discussing this natural occurrence and management thereof, that they have to employ euphemisms).
And it appears that the ad has caught the attention of the very market at which it was aimed. Which is great news for the supermarket chain in question- seems it’s luring those customers away from their competitors- at least if you believe the word on the street.
For example, I recently paused in the supermarket aisle to peruse all the possibilities for a periodic episode, when a couple comes strolling through. She slowed her pace and came to a stop alongside me whilst he picked up speed and was last seen dashing around the corner into Dairy. As we both stood there, dazed and confused by the size of the selection and the specials, it didn’t seem at all strange to strike up a conversation about it.
“A lot to choose from, eh.” says she, addressing the shelves in front of us but I assumed she was really talking to me. See, eye contact is a big thing in these situations, or rather, a lack thereof (kinda like the men at the urinal so I’m told- you don’t wanna look in the wrong place so keep your eyes at the wall dead ahead at all times).
“Yes, too many.” says I in a sparkling display of my conversational skills.
“There should just be one type of each to make it easier” continued the stranger at my right.
“And one price across the board” I agreed.
“But at least they’re not adding GST to them anymore,” says my newfound friend, “unlike some other stores.”
“Now if only we could get them to take the tax off a few more of life’s necessities!” declared I.
Perhaps it was a case of safety in numbers as our selection seemed to take a little longer than the usual sideways snatch-and-grab on a quick trip up the aisle. And we finally strolled companionably around the corner to find her other half still lurking near the yoghurt section.
As she was smacking him with the sanitary napkins and stirring him for taking off again, I continued on my quest for other essential items (with GST included, unfortunately), chuckling as I went.
I was then amused as I took my turn at the cash register, where an obviously pubescent lad highlighted his rather unfortunate crop of acne with a brilliant blush as he scanned my items. It probably didn’t help that I clumsily dropped that particular product no less than three times as I was transferring it from basket to conveyor belt to bag. (Isn’t it amazing how clumsy one can be when you least need it?)
Based on his face, it made me wonder how the checkout chicks cope when a customer plonks a packet of prophylactics on the counter. (Lord knows I blush if it’s my turn to buy them, and I’m a married woman approaching 40 for crying out loud!) Mind you, I can’t get my Beloved to buy certain items for love nor money…
How did we get to TV shows that show way too much of the seedier side of life, in a world where “sex, drugs, and rock & roll” seem to be both acceptable and attainable ideals; yet the man and the woman on the street still can’t bring themselves to freely use the proper terminology for totally natural bodily functions and the products designed to make that time of life a little easier (oh and what is with the blue liquid they use in all those ads, I ask you? If it’s blue, you’re in big trouble, I’d say)!
But I digress.
So, back to that ad and the claims one shouldn’t be taxed for being a woman.
While I’m happy to see at least one supermarket is covering a tax that the average female gets hit with for around 40 years of her life, I’d be absolutely cheering the first company that was brave enough to say it without the euphemisms too.
Jx
©2009
I’m inclined to believe it’s exactly the reason certain things are included in the GST...it’s inescapable, and for the most part, not negotiable.
For, what’s that old saying: ‘Only two things in life are certain; Death, and Taxes.’
So it stands to reason that if it’s gonna be needed, someone’s going to put a price on it. In this case, we’re talking about ‘feminine hygiene products’ (and isn’t it funny that there’s still such obvious discomfort about discussing this natural occurrence and management thereof, that they have to employ euphemisms).
And it appears that the ad has caught the attention of the very market at which it was aimed. Which is great news for the supermarket chain in question- seems it’s luring those customers away from their competitors- at least if you believe the word on the street.
For example, I recently paused in the supermarket aisle to peruse all the possibilities for a periodic episode, when a couple comes strolling through. She slowed her pace and came to a stop alongside me whilst he picked up speed and was last seen dashing around the corner into Dairy. As we both stood there, dazed and confused by the size of the selection and the specials, it didn’t seem at all strange to strike up a conversation about it.
“A lot to choose from, eh.” says she, addressing the shelves in front of us but I assumed she was really talking to me. See, eye contact is a big thing in these situations, or rather, a lack thereof (kinda like the men at the urinal so I’m told- you don’t wanna look in the wrong place so keep your eyes at the wall dead ahead at all times).
“Yes, too many.” says I in a sparkling display of my conversational skills.
“There should just be one type of each to make it easier” continued the stranger at my right.
“And one price across the board” I agreed.
“But at least they’re not adding GST to them anymore,” says my newfound friend, “unlike some other stores.”
“Now if only we could get them to take the tax off a few more of life’s necessities!” declared I.
Perhaps it was a case of safety in numbers as our selection seemed to take a little longer than the usual sideways snatch-and-grab on a quick trip up the aisle. And we finally strolled companionably around the corner to find her other half still lurking near the yoghurt section.
As she was smacking him with the sanitary napkins and stirring him for taking off again, I continued on my quest for other essential items (with GST included, unfortunately), chuckling as I went.
I was then amused as I took my turn at the cash register, where an obviously pubescent lad highlighted his rather unfortunate crop of acne with a brilliant blush as he scanned my items. It probably didn’t help that I clumsily dropped that particular product no less than three times as I was transferring it from basket to conveyor belt to bag. (Isn’t it amazing how clumsy one can be when you least need it?)
Based on his face, it made me wonder how the checkout chicks cope when a customer plonks a packet of prophylactics on the counter. (Lord knows I blush if it’s my turn to buy them, and I’m a married woman approaching 40 for crying out loud!) Mind you, I can’t get my Beloved to buy certain items for love nor money…
How did we get to TV shows that show way too much of the seedier side of life, in a world where “sex, drugs, and rock & roll” seem to be both acceptable and attainable ideals; yet the man and the woman on the street still can’t bring themselves to freely use the proper terminology for totally natural bodily functions and the products designed to make that time of life a little easier (oh and what is with the blue liquid they use in all those ads, I ask you? If it’s blue, you’re in big trouble, I’d say)!
But I digress.
So, back to that ad and the claims one shouldn’t be taxed for being a woman.
While I’m happy to see at least one supermarket is covering a tax that the average female gets hit with for around 40 years of her life, I’d be absolutely cheering the first company that was brave enough to say it without the euphemisms too.
Jx
©2009
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Shop 'til You Drop
It’s not often I get to hit the shops without an entourage.
Oh my Beloved avoids the shopping centres like the dog avoids a bath- so it’s a rare event to have him along on the excursion- it’s usually just me and the kids.
So when I do get to escape, even for a quick trip to the supermarket for some essentials, it’s a blessing. And usually quite enlightening.
I’m an observer of people, you see, and there is plenty of fodder at the food stores!
Take the other day, for example.
I was standing in line at the checkout with my ‘handful of groceries’ (an old joke of my mother’s, because in fact anything more than one item is actually over the aforementioned handful) when I can’t help but overhear what’s happening with the people in front of me. So did the rest of the queue. Sadly for us, we couldn’t quite see what was going on, but anyone with a long-haired child could guess...
It’s obviously a mother and daughter tag team, and it’s also obvious that the mother has just about had enough ‘quality time’ with the daughter for one outing.
The one-sided conversation goes something like this, the following all coming from the mum (and I bet you’ve experienced a similar scenario). I have to say, the mother in question did a stand-up job of positive parenting- up to a point:
“Oh Darling, don’t do that with your hair, please.”
“No, please Darling, don’t do that with your hair.”
“Honey, I said don’t do that.”
“I mean it, please don’t do that, it’s annoying.”
“Leave your hair alone Darling.”
“I said, leave your hair alone!”
“Leave it alone now or I’m going to get cranky.”
“Alright, I’m really getting cranky now- stop doing that to your hair!’
“I mean it, don’t do that to your hair!’
“Alright, that’s it! As soon as we get home, I’m cutting all your hair off !!”
Now, for the rest of us in line, it was all too familiar despite it being a tad dramatic, and especially for those of us who had managed to make it to the shops without our own little darlings in hand, it was more than a little amusing and a whole lot refreshing to not be the one delivering the diatribe in front of a captive audience for a change.
So who knows whether the “darling” in question did indeed get the impromptu haircut as threatened. What I do know is that I came home with my handful of groceries, gathered up my two kids in a bear hug and ruffled the living daylights out of their mop tops.
And revelled in the fact that I got to go out without them.
Jx
©2009
Oh my Beloved avoids the shopping centres like the dog avoids a bath- so it’s a rare event to have him along on the excursion- it’s usually just me and the kids.
So when I do get to escape, even for a quick trip to the supermarket for some essentials, it’s a blessing. And usually quite enlightening.
I’m an observer of people, you see, and there is plenty of fodder at the food stores!
Take the other day, for example.
I was standing in line at the checkout with my ‘handful of groceries’ (an old joke of my mother’s, because in fact anything more than one item is actually over the aforementioned handful) when I can’t help but overhear what’s happening with the people in front of me. So did the rest of the queue. Sadly for us, we couldn’t quite see what was going on, but anyone with a long-haired child could guess...
It’s obviously a mother and daughter tag team, and it’s also obvious that the mother has just about had enough ‘quality time’ with the daughter for one outing.
The one-sided conversation goes something like this, the following all coming from the mum (and I bet you’ve experienced a similar scenario). I have to say, the mother in question did a stand-up job of positive parenting- up to a point:
“Oh Darling, don’t do that with your hair, please.”
“No, please Darling, don’t do that with your hair.”
“Honey, I said don’t do that.”
“I mean it, please don’t do that, it’s annoying.”
“Leave your hair alone Darling.”
“I said, leave your hair alone!”
“Leave it alone now or I’m going to get cranky.”
“Alright, I’m really getting cranky now- stop doing that to your hair!’
“I mean it, don’t do that to your hair!’
“Alright, that’s it! As soon as we get home, I’m cutting all your hair off !!”
Now, for the rest of us in line, it was all too familiar despite it being a tad dramatic, and especially for those of us who had managed to make it to the shops without our own little darlings in hand, it was more than a little amusing and a whole lot refreshing to not be the one delivering the diatribe in front of a captive audience for a change.
So who knows whether the “darling” in question did indeed get the impromptu haircut as threatened. What I do know is that I came home with my handful of groceries, gathered up my two kids in a bear hug and ruffled the living daylights out of their mop tops.
And revelled in the fact that I got to go out without them.
Jx
©2009
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Boobie Trapped
(NOTE: The conference has been and gone, but I'm posting this from another blog of mine, due to requests to repeat in a public arena. I have no shame, apparently.)
I’ve got to go to Melbourne next week for a conference.
Now, I haven’t been in any kind of corporate clothing for years, and that was always part of the appeal of moving from the Copy and Sales department to being on-air in radio: no one really gets to see what you look like. You could be slopping into the studio in your slippers, but sound like a million dollars and that’s the way the listeners picture you (for some reason people always think I'm blonde, too…not sure how to take that, hmmmm)!
Anyway, thanks to a quirk of Mother Nature when I became a mother, most of my “suit” stuff no longer fits me. Aside from the little jelly belly that haunts a lot of us ladies even after we get rid of ‘the bump’, I‘m a far cry from the President of the Itty Bitty Titty Committee that I used to be at school, that’s for sure. Oh yes, I couldn’t be one of those early developers and get the goods when we were trying to attract the boys in high school, could I. Oh no, I had to be a late bloomer didn’t I?
And bloom I did.
My girls darn near require their own postcode these days!
Within minutes it seemed of finally falling pregnant with my firstborn, I went from a respectable and sorely missed C (for Cute/Compact) cup, to DD (a Desirable Double), to an F (Far out), through G (Good God), up to H (Holy Hell), and into a nappy bra once the milk kicked in. Do you know what I mean by that? Two cloth nappies folded into triangles then pinned together as a halter top in an effort to contain the massive milk-making machines. (And you will never see those photos, I can assure you.)
Not only did I set a new record in the maternity wing at our local hospital, I broke it with my next bub!
Through the miracle of weight loss one gets from breastfeeding, I soon shrunk back to a tidy little size 10-12 (ok, I’ll be honest, so it’s more like 12-14 these days). Except for the girls- still an F cup. Friends and family who said that you lose your boobs when you stop feeding, lied to me big time.
How hard is it, I ask, to find a decent dress or matching pieces to fit that sort of figure, that’s not too tight up top or too baggy at bottom?? Very. Bloody. Hard.
After a few years of looking longingly at my lovely clothes in my cupboard, I bit the bullet and gave them all away. Which left me with a fairly unexciting selection of vee neck tees (to draw the eyes upwards and away from the monster cleavage, dontcha know), oversized baseball tops (an all-out camouflage campaign), and just a couple of nice pairs of pants and skirts (bor-ing).
So when my boss says we’re off to Melbourne for a conference, it occurred to me that I needed to seriously rethink and rework my wardrobe. (Sheesh, it’s the “Style Capital of Australia”, for crying out loud! Could we not have held it somewhere called ‘Boganville’ instead?)
I take one of my BFFs with me to help me shop.
Here we pause and I make a comment about the true nature of our friendship, as a couple of days ago I again tried on the two dresses I bought with her approval. One has a nice vee front…….that darn near dips to my belly button thank you very much! The other has a 3 inch wide belt that cinches just below the boosies, and causes me to have flashbacks to the aforementioned nappy bra. *shudder*
Like anyone would pay attention to what I was teaching in the Master Class if I wore that one!!!
What was I thinking picking these dresses?
What was she thinking to let me get them??
So it’s back to the drawing board with just 2 days now to locate the perfect corporate outfit on an itty bitty budget (yes, pity my monetary assets aren't as large as my physical assets). And now I am hyperconscious of my curvaceous booty. To the point where I am positive that if the local TV news crew were out filming generic images of the crowds for a story on say, obesity, getting the sort of shots where they zoom in on the fat butts or rounded tums or generous chests going by…well, that little red light would so be blinking in my direction for sure.
I mean, when I returned the affronting belted number, the nice sales lady insisted I try on another style- also with a belt! Needless to say, even she couldn’t contain her shock, and was ever-so-helpful in refunding my money, ever-so-quickly too.
So now, with about 48 hours remaining, it’s come down to this: if I fail in my mission to camo the mammo’s, I can only hope that my Workshop is sufficiently brilliant to keep the group’s attention on the topic and not on my top.
On the other hand, if my Power Point Presentation is pathetic, at least there’ll be two points that participants will remember!
Jx
©2009
I’ve got to go to Melbourne next week for a conference.
Now, I haven’t been in any kind of corporate clothing for years, and that was always part of the appeal of moving from the Copy and Sales department to being on-air in radio: no one really gets to see what you look like. You could be slopping into the studio in your slippers, but sound like a million dollars and that’s the way the listeners picture you (for some reason people always think I'm blonde, too…not sure how to take that, hmmmm)!
Anyway, thanks to a quirk of Mother Nature when I became a mother, most of my “suit” stuff no longer fits me. Aside from the little jelly belly that haunts a lot of us ladies even after we get rid of ‘the bump’, I‘m a far cry from the President of the Itty Bitty Titty Committee that I used to be at school, that’s for sure. Oh yes, I couldn’t be one of those early developers and get the goods when we were trying to attract the boys in high school, could I. Oh no, I had to be a late bloomer didn’t I?
And bloom I did.
My girls darn near require their own postcode these days!
Within minutes it seemed of finally falling pregnant with my firstborn, I went from a respectable and sorely missed C (for Cute/Compact) cup, to DD (a Desirable Double), to an F (Far out), through G (Good God), up to H (Holy Hell), and into a nappy bra once the milk kicked in. Do you know what I mean by that? Two cloth nappies folded into triangles then pinned together as a halter top in an effort to contain the massive milk-making machines. (And you will never see those photos, I can assure you.)
Not only did I set a new record in the maternity wing at our local hospital, I broke it with my next bub!
Through the miracle of weight loss one gets from breastfeeding, I soon shrunk back to a tidy little size 10-12 (ok, I’ll be honest, so it’s more like 12-14 these days). Except for the girls- still an F cup. Friends and family who said that you lose your boobs when you stop feeding, lied to me big time.
How hard is it, I ask, to find a decent dress or matching pieces to fit that sort of figure, that’s not too tight up top or too baggy at bottom?? Very. Bloody. Hard.
After a few years of looking longingly at my lovely clothes in my cupboard, I bit the bullet and gave them all away. Which left me with a fairly unexciting selection of vee neck tees (to draw the eyes upwards and away from the monster cleavage, dontcha know), oversized baseball tops (an all-out camouflage campaign), and just a couple of nice pairs of pants and skirts (bor-ing).
So when my boss says we’re off to Melbourne for a conference, it occurred to me that I needed to seriously rethink and rework my wardrobe. (Sheesh, it’s the “Style Capital of Australia”, for crying out loud! Could we not have held it somewhere called ‘Boganville’ instead?)
I take one of my BFFs with me to help me shop.
Here we pause and I make a comment about the true nature of our friendship, as a couple of days ago I again tried on the two dresses I bought with her approval. One has a nice vee front…….that darn near dips to my belly button thank you very much! The other has a 3 inch wide belt that cinches just below the boosies, and causes me to have flashbacks to the aforementioned nappy bra. *shudder*
Like anyone would pay attention to what I was teaching in the Master Class if I wore that one!!!
What was I thinking picking these dresses?
What was she thinking to let me get them??
So it’s back to the drawing board with just 2 days now to locate the perfect corporate outfit on an itty bitty budget (yes, pity my monetary assets aren't as large as my physical assets). And now I am hyperconscious of my curvaceous booty. To the point where I am positive that if the local TV news crew were out filming generic images of the crowds for a story on say, obesity, getting the sort of shots where they zoom in on the fat butts or rounded tums or generous chests going by…well, that little red light would so be blinking in my direction for sure.
I mean, when I returned the affronting belted number, the nice sales lady insisted I try on another style- also with a belt! Needless to say, even she couldn’t contain her shock, and was ever-so-helpful in refunding my money, ever-so-quickly too.
So now, with about 48 hours remaining, it’s come down to this: if I fail in my mission to camo the mammo’s, I can only hope that my Workshop is sufficiently brilliant to keep the group’s attention on the topic and not on my top.
On the other hand, if my Power Point Presentation is pathetic, at least there’ll be two points that participants will remember!
Jx
©2009
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